Nothing

This poems is not about Nature at all,

It’s simply a poem ‘bout nothing – that’s all.

You won’t hear it mention mysterious trees,

Or Springtime’s brief quiver ‘twixt blossom and bees,

And neither will butterflies dance on its breeze.

If ever this poem got close up to Nature,

He’d fill up his lungs and then shout, “How I hate yer!”

This poem is not about Love, not at all,

It’s simply a poem ‘bout nothing – that’s all.

A moon-beam? A kiss? A lingering glance?

A galloping pulse-rate? A hint of romance?

You want all these things? Then piss off to France.

If ever this poem got close up to Love,

He’d give it a punch in an iron-clad glove.

This poem is not about “serious shit”,

It’s simply a poem ‘bout nothing, to wit:

There’ll be no obtuse, metaphoric allusions;

This poem has no “I’m so clever” delusions,

That leave one with fatal linguistic contusions.

If ever this poem got close up to serious,

The effect on its purpose would be deleterious.

This poem is not about Things, not at all,

It’s simply a poem ‘bout nothing – that’s all.

It’s not about Life,

And it’s not about Art;

It’s not about Joy

Of an Innocent Heart.

It’s not about Angst,

And it’s not about Fear;

It’s not about Loss

Of the Things We Hold Dear.

It's not about Darkness

Consuming the Light;

It’s not about Helping

To Fight the Good Fight.

It has no concern

For Things of Import;

This poem’s Devoid

Of All Meaningful Thought.

This poem could never get close up to valid;

Its every intention is pointless and pallid.